'Mm, what? Oh, sure,' Gilliatt replied, stretching his eyes, stifling a yawn. McBride smiled at him. They had crossed the river Penfeld north of Brest half an hour earlier. It was four in the morning and his own energy reserves seemed dangerously consumed. The weaving, backtracking course he had almost whimsically followed for two hours had thrown off all pursuit — they'd hidden in a stand of trees while their immediate pursuers had flashed by, headlights ablaze, the steel helmets of the platoon in the back of the Opel truck clearly visible. Then, back roads, tracks, lanes, moving north for some time away from Brest and any search or road-blocks, then cutting west. Now, McBride estimated they were no more than a few kilometres north of the fishing village of Ste Anne-du-Portzic, where Lampau's relative, a fisherman, lived. It was time to abandon the van. Gilliatt looked all but finished, out on his feet. But McBride was satisfied with his companion, and this caused him to nudge the other man's arm, and grin.
'Come on, Christopher Robin, almost time for bed.'
Gilliatt smiled tiredly. 'Where are we?'
'On a very minor road — why am I telling you, you've got the map?' McBride laughed. 'Marshy country. We get rid of the van here.'
Gilliatt concentrated afresh on the map. 'We're some where off the D105, I think.' McBride's finger tapped at the map on Gilliatt's knee.
'Just there.'
He jolted the van on down the narrow, hedged track for a time, then slowed and tugged on the handbrake. The hedge had given way to open, dyke-like country, almost Dutch. The track was slightly above the level of the fields. McBride got out of the van, and was chilled immediately by the cold, searching wind. Dead reeds rattled eerily below the road. Gilliatt joined him, rubbing his hands together.
'Great country.'
'For us, yes. Just tip the old wagon over the side of the road — have to use the headlights for a bit. Shame, that—'
They got back in the van, and McBride switched on the lights. A pale wash of light showed dead reeds, a few spindly trees lining the road at intervals, and the flat marshland smoothly sliding away into darkness. In another minute, McBride stopped again, the van turned so that its nose was at the edge of the road. Below the lights were reeds and bushes, and a dull gleam of water.
'Right, over the side with the old lady.'
They got behind the van, and heaved against it. Slowly, with a dignified reluctance, the Citroen toppled nose first down the embankment, tearing through the bushes and reeds, splashing into the water, then settling. McBride shone a torch down the embankment. The Citroen seemed impossibly small, toy-like. It was half-concealed by the bushes, and buried up to the windscreen in marshy water.
'Just some cosmetic work, I think,' McBride murmured. 'You stay here.'
McBride eased himself down the embankment until he could rest his weight against the branch of a bush. Then, removing his clasp-knife from his pocket, he proceeded to cut handfuls of reeds, and scatter them across the rear of the Citroen which now pointed up the embankment. Then he broke a large overhanging branch of the bush, pulling at it until it also helped to conceal the van. Breathing heavily, he clambered back to join Gilliatt.
'Will that do?'
'Have to. Probably no one but a local would find it anyway. And in twenty-four hours, we should be well on our way. Either that, or the discovery of the van won't matter all that much. Come on, we've got a nice walk before you climb into your own little bed again.' McBride laughed, thumping Gilliatt on the back.
'Proper caution you are,' Gilliatt said in stage-Cockney.
'I am that. You have to admit, with me there's never a dull moment, eh?'
'Too many dull moments would finish you off, would they?'
The wind whistled across the marsh, the reeds argued volubly in the silence before McBride answered.
'That question might be a little too close to the mark, Peter. I think we'll pass on that one, eh?' He increased his pace. 'Come on, otherwise we'll have the local cowmen out for early milking and wondering who we are!'
Gilliatt trotted to catch up with him.
McBride was having a shower, whistling tunelessly and happily to himself. Claire Drummond could hear him through the open door between their rooms as she liberally applied talcum powder to herself after her bath. Her hair was tied up with a ribbon, her face devoid of make-up. Her high cheekbones and slanting eyes seemed peculiarly suited to her look of concentration and suppressed anger. Her pale skin was further whitened by powder. She looked, even to herself, curiously dead, marbled, in the dressing-table mirror. She slipped on her robe, feeling suddenly cold. The sexual bout with McBride after he had shown her what he had filched from Hackney had taken a tiring, wearing concentration to achieve the calculated, simulated abandon which seemed required. McBride's rutting was thoughtless, self-satisfied, and he had noticed no reluctance — she was cautiously certain of that.
But, she wanted to talk to Moynihan, now before they went out to dinner. It was obviously of importance in Goessler's scheme that this minefield business be exposed — or McBride was on the wrong trail altogether. If he was, then they were all wasting their time and Moynihan would have to make demands of Goessler, get out of him the stuff that would dynamite the meetings between Dublin and London.
It didn't seem like much, a drunken Scotsman's deposition before a disciplinary hearing, but that was their trouble — they didn't know what was important and what was not. Goessler had offered them a scheme he said was foolproof, had been more than a year in the making, and could not fail. They'd been greedy for it on both sides of the border, especially when Guthrie was the big prize. Guthrie was a winner, and he had to go — especially now, when he looked like keeping Dublin in that bloody Anglo-Irish Agreement. That
She plucked the receiver off the rest as McBride went into an off-key version of a Neil Diamond song. She hesitated, listening, then dialled rapidly, tugging the cord she held in her left hand in time to each ring of the receiver at the other end. Seven, eight, nine — she was about to put it down when Moynihan answered.
'Listen, I haven't much time. He's found something that might or might not be important. Has it anything to do with a minefield, for God's sake?'
'Minefield? Goessler just called me, told me everything was satisfactory, fat bastard—'
'Never mind that!' she whispered fiercely. 'Listen. The Germans opened a channel through the British minefield in November 1940 — it must have something to do with the invasion plan. Where does that put
'Christ, Claire, I don't know—'
'We have to get one up on Goessler. We can't afford for McBride to be following the wrong scent, that bloody bastard Guthrie has everyone dancing to his tune—!' She realized her hoarse, fierce whisper had grown louder, more intense, and glanced at the open door, paused to listen to McBride's whistling. Beethoven now. McBride the musical eclectic—
'What do you want me to do?' Moynihan was resignedly subordinate.
'How does Goessler
'Could be.'
'Find out, then. For God's sake, Sean, go over there tomorrow and find out how Goessler is keeping his eye on McBride—' And then McBride was standing in the doorway, towelling his hair, another big towel draped round him. He was grinning perplexedly. That's right, McBride — eight-thirty. Thank you.' She turned to him. 'The restaurant — I was just checking the reservation,' she explained.
He crossed to her, kissed her. She eased her lips into softness, responsiveness, as their mouths met.
'You'll have to learn, my darling, that I can organize dinner, if we're going anywhere with this affair—' The statement became almost a question. She kissed him again, moving her open mouth against his. His hand slipped inside her robe, kneading her breast.
She laughed, pushed him playfully away. 'I'm hungry.'
'Not as hungry as I am,' he said with evident meaning, looking for something in her face, her eyes. She blenched inwardly at the intensity of his gaze. Then, even as she smiled, she dismissed him, removed him to a distance in her imagination where he was merely the instrument of her purpose.
Sir Charles Walsingham was studying papers at home. He was seated on a green-covered sofa, legs crossed,
