Emerald Decision

in and around Brest. An expert in this sort of thing from Army Intelligence is prepared to bet that there are at least two new divisions in the immediate Brest area, just on the basis of the transport he can pick out on these pictures. Unfortunately, we don't have other pictures of the area behind Brest. At present. But we should have some by tomorrow.' He smiled in March's direction, acknowledging a concession. 'If those new troops in Brest have any connection with the submarines we suspect are back in Brest, what can we conclude from that?'

The question elicited only silence, until March spoke. He stood up, and spoke slowly and distinctly, his teeth almost closed together. The veins stood out on his neck. All the time, he continued to look at the table in front of him.

'Gentlemen, this meeting is closed. Thank you for your time. I do not need to remind you that these matters are to be discussed with no one outside this room. I apologize for any sense of anti- climax you may now feel.' He glared at Walsingham. 'Commander, if you'll come with me—'

He walked out of the room, followed by Walsingham. The Wren finished her shorthand, and the three naval officers stared at the door through which March and Walsingham had retreated, then at each other. They appeared like children robbed of the ending of a new, and absorbing, bedtime story.

When March had sat down at his desk, and Walsingham had closed the oak door behind them, he barked at the junior officer with an anger that Walsingham had never seen unleashed before. He had pressured, even embarrassed, the Rear Admiral in a deliberately cavalier manner. And the Admiral knew he was being pressured.

'Don't you ever try to do that to me again, young man!' March's eyes burned. He let Walsingham continue standing like a recalcitrant in front of his desk. 'You tried to force me to side with you, fall in with whatever ridiculous scheme you have in mind! I will not be blackmailed into agreeing with you out of embarrassment! You arrogant young puppy!' Then March subsided into silence, staring broodingly at his blotter, at the papers he had carried with him from the conference room. Walsingham stood very still, staring at the portrait of the King that hung behind the Admiral's desk; George VI, King-Emperor, in full naval uniform. A little, thin gleam of patriotism came and went, ousting the arrogance of conviction, the personal quality of the course on which he had embarked. Then March spoke again, tiredly. 'What did you attempt to persuade me to do, Charles?'

'Sir, I'd like to put someone into Brest, immediately, to recce for those U-boats, even to look at the troop dispositions.'

March looked up as if slapped. 'Beneath your absolute conviction of your own brilliance, Charles, are you equally convinced of the reality of this German invasion?'

'Sir, I am.' Walsingham's cheek glowed at the accusation of arrogance. Its truth struck him as he went on staring at the portrait of the King-Emperor. 'Yes. Admiral, I'm convinced that the Germans are planning an invasion of Ireland — as a beach-head to replace the foundered Sea Lion venture. A second front against the mainland United Kingdom. And a means of closing, finally, the convoy routes. Just imagine U-boat bases in Ireland—'

March, surprisingly, nodded. 'We've been wrong, or behindhand, or short-sighted most of this year. We can't afford to be wrong again.' His eyes were hard as he looked up into Walsingham's young face. 'God, Charles, I hope you're wrong about this!' Then he seemed to shrug off such speculation as useless. 'We'd better get something organized. You'll want experts, of course—'

'Sir, I'd like to use my man McBride, and Lieutenant Gilliatt, the officer who—'

'Yes, I know who Gilliatt is. Formerly of the Intelligence Division, yes.' March pondered it. 'You have a predilection for this man McBride — you obviously think him good.' Walsingham nodded. 'If you in your unbounded arrogance think him good, then he must live up to an impossible standard! You're ruthless in your assessment of people, Charles—' Walsingham's features remained an inexpressive mask, and March brushed his hand across the desk as if to dismiss the ineffectual reprimand. 'Very well, get McBride here as soon as you can. Operation plan to be on my desk first thing in the morning!'

October 198-

'I see. Very well. If Mr Walsingham is going to be absent for the next few days, perhaps you could give him a message when he returns — would you inform him that the son of Michael McBride — yes, that's right, Irish spelling — his son is making enquiries into Emerald Necklace—' Drummond chuckled. 'Yes, it does sound mysterious. Please tell him that, would you. Goodbye.'

Drummond replaced the receiver, and sat back in his chair, smiling up at the ceiling of his study. Outside, the evening was quiet except for a fresh little wind that had sprung up at sunset. The house, too, seemed silent, and empty. His face sagged into folds that mirrored his mental lethargy now he had delivered his message. Walsingham was Head of the Directorate of Security, and it had consequently taken Drummond a considerable time to get through even to his senior aide. As Head of the DS (MIS), Walsingham had an official civil service rank as a Permanent Under-Secretary at the Home Office, and was hedged about with the expected number of assistants, aides, secretaries, all of whom had needed placating before he could leave his cryptic message. A glimpse of Walsingham's face when he received it would have been worth having.

Drummond felt tired, and edgy, unrelaxed. He was disinclined to listen to the gramophone or Radio 3. Nothing attracted him to the television. On the ceiling, clear as pictures, his own past glimmered. McBride was roughly assisting him down a road he did not wish to follow. And the father lurked behind the son, the recollected smile a pain in his side. His stomach felt gaseous and empty, but he could not be bothered to cook a meal. He was nearly eighty, for heaven's sake, and these pictures bobbing unwilled out of the dark at the back of his mind were harsh and unwelcome.

He heard a small car approaching, and suddenly shuddered as if he had opened a window to the breeze. It stopped outside, and he heard the approaching footsteps with something like terror. The present wiped away the ceiling-images rudely, insisting with a contemporary nightmare of its own. The doorbell rang. Sighing, he got shakily to his feet and went to the front door. He switched on every light he passed.

It was Moynihan, as he had known it would be. He had recognized the car engine. Moynihan was grinning.

'You'll invite me in, then?' he said. Drummond reluctantly made way for him. Moynihan, familiar with the house, made for the study, warming his hands at the fire whose flames shimmered on the ceiling. He sat down in the easy chair opposite Drummond's own. With unwilling complicity, Drummond poured two whiskies and handed one to Moynihan. 'I suppose your coming was inevitable,' Drummond said, sitting heavily in his chair, swallowing at his drink.

'Naturally, Admiral.' Drummond winced at the rank, his face pursing. 'I made sure they got off all right from the airport.' Drummond appeared startled. 'Don't worry. McBride didn't see me. But, as I was saying to you, I saw them off, then came straight here — for a briefing.' Moynihan laughed.

'Claire will be all right!'

'Come now, Admiral. We know they're not looking for her. She's your daughter, dear God — how safe could she be?' He laughed again. 'No, just tell me what he'll be up to in London.'

'Admiralty records, for the most part. He'll find the sort of thing you need there—' A swift passage of emotions across Drummond's face, to which Moynihan attended. Many of them puzzled him, and Drummond, he finally decided, was confused with age and senility. Fear, concern, sense of betrayal like repeating images. Claire had suggested her father was totally pliable, which he was. But she hadn't suggested an intense mental life surrounding what he had been forced to do with regard to McBride — point him back to London.

'Gilliatt—' Drummond began, then fell silent.

'Yes? Us, do you mean?' Drummond nodded. 'No, I think he died naturally — old age. Unless it was — someone else?' Moynihan thought of Goessler, but remained silent. He didn't know.

'God, it's a mess!'

'Your daughter joining us, you mean?' Drummond nodded. 'Ah, well, Admiral. Not your fault she's more Irish than a lot of the Irish are. She was born here.' Regret again on Drummond's face. 'I'll keep an eye on her in London, don't you fret, Admiral. She'll be quite safe. And you've played your part splendidly, haven't you now?'

Drummond, staring into the fire, regretted his call to Walsingham, regretted even mentioning his name to McBride. Claire had no idea that Walsingham was still in intelligence work; she thought of him as a civil servant. What had he done to her? Had he betrayed her?

He was horribly, inescapably caught in a trap. He saw that now. How could he save his daughter by