He had been too shocked to speak, not wanting to break the moment as he felt himself swelling to touch the back of her throat resting on the warm bed of her tongue. Then she was on her feet, gripping him there with her right hand, leading him to the sofa like a dog on a lead. Her face was close now and he could see that, for the first time since he had known her, she was smiling as though she meant it. The light of mischief and provocation dancing in her eyes.
Then he had ravished her. Hard and powerful, heedless of her needs, aware only of his own. Driven by the overwhelming ‘desire to release the tension.of the days and weeks of fear and undercover living, to drown it all out in one glorious moment of ecstasy. And to his surprise it was she who had climaxed first, clawing her nails across his back so deeply that he felt the wetness of the blood trickling from his skin. That had stoked the final fire, and he drove into her, merciless until his final rush.
As he fell beside her on the sofa, he anticipated her scorn and sharp tongue. But he was wrong. Instead she just smiled, her mouth swollen and bruised, her eyes misty and unfocused.
Her voice was low when she spoke. ‘If you’re interested, that’s my first time in ten years.’
He wanted to ask her why, but somehow didn’t dare.
And she seemed grateful for that, clutching his arm and drawing close. Her head on his shoulder, the softness of her hair against his neck. As he glanced at her, he thought how like an adolescent she looked, a teenage girl who had just discovered her first love.
From that moment on it had been the same between them. The antagonism had evaporated, equals, as though both recognised that their fate was shared. For good or ill.
Still he wondered what had brought about the change in her. The next day, after they had made love again, she had whispered something that he thought might be a clue.
‘I feel I’ve completed my father’s life’s work, Pat. Achieved what he always wanted to achieve. He gave eighteen years of his life in the fight for peace and freedom. Peace had to be achieved through violence, he knew that. Sometimes it’s the only way.’ She had kissed him then. ‘There’s only one thing left I have to do now.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Not for my da, for me. To kill the man who lured him to his death. You said you knew a way.’
‘I do.’
Remembering the conversation now, McGirl looked back out of the bedroom window and allowed himself to speculate. Peace. Down south of the ancient cathedral city of Salisbury. Trafalgar House. Was that really where it was all going to end? The struggle over after all these years? Perhaps even the tricolour flying over Stormont. It was hard to believe.
It occurred to him abruptly that his life would alter beyond recognition within months, maybe even weeks. There would be no place for him amongst the politicians. Street killers like Pat McGirl would just be an embarrassment, he was aware of that. After the accolades and platitudes for the foot soldiers of the Provisional IRA, he’d be cast aside. Forgotten, a social leper.
But he’d known no other life since his late teens, and he’d been unemployed then. Peace might yet prove a bitter victory for many. Suddenly he could see that there was no future, not for him.
Clodagh stirred again, this time propping herself on one elbow and shielding her eyes from the strengthening dawn light. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Couldn’t sleep.’
‘Why?’
‘That signal to Donny Fitzpatrick, asking permission to go after Major Harrison.’
‘Yes?’
‘I’ve had the reply. We’re cleared to go.’
The-military attache at the British High Commission in Vancouver received the coded signal from Vauxhall Cross, MI6’s new headquarters in London, at eleven local time.
He telephoned his regular contact in the Canadian Security Intelligence Service and arranged to meet him at noon. The two of them took a taxi to the address the attache had been given on Marine Drive in the south of the city. Stanley Tower was a twenty-storey office block and a fast elevator lifted them to Suite 200 on the nineteenth floor.
The legend stencilled on the glass swing doors read COMPLETE OFFICE SERVICES: EXECUTIVE SUITES, DOCUMENTATION FACILITIES, FAX, TELEPHONE RECEPTION, MAIL BOXES.
That’s the answer, the attache thought as they spoke to the primly dressed receptionist who interrupted her director’s meeting.
‘We have no client called Clodagh Dougan,’ he said.
But his receptionist recognised the name. ‘She’s not a client, but we do receive mail for someone of that name.’
‘Can you explain?’
‘The arrangement was set up by an American lady.’ The receptionist consulted her client book. ‘Mrs Deborah Mayo from Connecticut. She called in personally and paid for one year’s service up front. Cash, as I recall.’
‘Can you remember what she looked like?’
‘I do as it happens. Quite striking, in her late twenties or early thirties. Dark hair, black I think. Her accent was a little odd.’
Could be, the attache thought. ‘What arrangements does she have?’
‘Well, it’s on behalf of a friend of hers, this Clodagh Dougan. That’s why it rang a bell, because it was rather unusual. Anything I receive addressed to Miss Dougan, I’m supposed to place in an envelope, readdress it to Mrs Mayo and post it on.’
‘Where to?’
‘Post office in England. To be collected.’
The attache’s mouth dropped open. Bullseye!
‘But it’s two-way,’ the receptionist added. ‘Sometimes Mrs Mayo sends me an envelope containing a sealed letter or postcard, whatever. I’m then expected to post those on from here to whatever address is written on them.’
‘Thank you so much for your help.’
Don Trenchard accepted the signal from the cipher clerk and sat down slowly in his seat, spreading the paper out across the blotter on his desk and picking up his first coffee of the day.
So that’s how she’d done it.
Clodagh Dougan was Mrs Deborah Mayo. Note the Irish name. American passport. Probably a genuine application but a substituted photograph. The wife of an Irish American supporter of the cause, cash for a favour one drunken night. It was likely the woman had never been abroad and didn’t even know the application had been made.
This way Clodagh’s sister Caitlin, relatives, friends and others who might expect to write to her in Canada could do so. And she could reply, each letter or postcard with a Vancouver postmark. Perfect cover.
But now Trenchard had little time. Once he had passed the information on to Nash, events would take on a momentum all their own which would be impossible to stop.
The hands of the office clock showed eight o’clock. Just time to catch the City Prices edition. He made his excuses and left Thames House, taking a taxi to Kensington High Street where he made the call from a public box.
‘Mullins — features.’ The familiar Californian twang.
‘Hallo, Casey, it’s Don here. Don Trenchard.’
‘Oh.‘Uncertain.
‘Look, Casey, I feel I owe you an apology. That business over in Ulster.’
‘Yes?’
‘I’d like to make it up to you. Can we meet?’
‘I’m tied up this lunch time,’ she lied, not keen to see the man again.
‘No, now. I’ve something important for you. I’m just across the street. There’s a cafe.’ He gave the name. ‘Can you meet me there in five minutes?’
‘I suppose so.’ Hesitant.
‘Great. And don’t tell anyone you’re coming to see me, there’s a good girl.’
It was with considerable misgiving that she grabbed her bag and coat, left the office and took the lift and escalator to reception. Outside, the breeze along Kensington High Street had a cool autumnal edge to it, unwarmed by the sunshine. She found Trenchard seated at one of the pavement tables, his fedora and two coffees placed in front of him.