Emerald Decision

three rashers of bacon, two fried eggs and a thick slice of white bread. He was helpless, just a wasp on a windscreen at whom the driver would occasionally flick, but on whom his mind might become increasingly, dangerously concentrated.

'And what have they done with this so-called knowledge?' the captain sneered, moving closer. The old woman seemed to have melted into the flagstones.

'Ah, now I couldn't possibly tell you that. I've been on holiday in Ireland for the last few days. But, I was on the minesweeper that found your precious channel through our minefield—' Gilliatt left the revelation floating on the air until it descended by its own weight. He smiled, and drawing on his cigarette leaned further back in his chair. McBride was watching him carefully. Maureen touched his arm as she saw the captain's face darken.

'When, eh? When did you find it?' the captain asked, dispensing with any pretence, hungry for the information.

'Oh, one day last week,' Gilliatt observed blithely.

'Get the Herr Oberst on the radio,' the captain snapped at the Bavarian sergeant, who immediately stood up. 'Tell the Herr Oberst what this Englishman knows, and ask what is to be done with him.' The second half of the sentence seemed to come as relief and inspiration to both the captain and his sergeant. Confidence returned at once.

Gilliatt quailed inwardly, as if from some electricity that might have passed from Maureen to himself through the hand that still lay on his arm. He was a wasp, and he had just buzzed against the windscreen again. He wondered what they would do with him, and prayed that the British government was doing something. A pressing futility was as physical as a pain behind his eyes, but he rubbed at his forehead to rid himself of it. Be a wasp, he thought. Just do your little bit—

October 198-

Walsingham had reluctantly agreed to accept Guthrie's invitation to lunch at his Georgian house set in three acres of gardens and paddock, through which a trout stream ran, on the Wiltshire-Hampshire border. Guthrie had decided to spend the weekend with his wife, Marian, at his country home rather than in London. Walsingham was driven down in time for lunch on the Saturday and, as the Daimler turned into the drive of Guthrie's home, he was aware at once of the overt security that surrounded the Minister's person, family, and house. Soldiers, supplemented by police dog-handlers, were evident through the trees across the sunlit paddock and lawns, moving in pairs.

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